in the sheep skin, in the milk and in the theft.
my ankle was a thing in their eye, that turned
so I made the bed, wrote the note,
scripted the edges thirst
onto sheets of flower-parlour'd mayonnaise, up unto it's collar, the lips of it.
like I knew that my family had landscaped a magnificent garden
and unabashedly presented in vases their soiled underwear;
from their polarity buds of effervescent champagn-ic flue
to the flourish of rose black-spot
... to their piles of 'green' paperbacks.
wondering always if those nothings, could’ve, would’ve, should’ve ’been sparrow-startled into pardons.
what blood-let should have been spilled.
If only they could have weighed on the balance
the worth of butter against the margarine. with the devil in judge, in harness
despite his advances
his assaults no more formulaic
as hollow'd out blue-hawk,
as hollow'd out blue-hawk feasting on callow blue carrion.
….that this song does not repeat
sun to tap the needle forward.